Wounds and Whiskey Don't Mix
by Dr. SecretAgentMan
Summary: "Slowly the gauze came undone, revealing cut after cut, layer after layer of skin blackened with burns and bruises that stood out against his pale skin. That wasn't the worse though, and even England had to turn away from the fist sized gouge in the middle of his chest. " England takes care of France after a long battle. Takes place during WWI. France!Whump


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters. If I did I'd be rich, living in a lakehouse by the beach, and would spend my days continuously reading fanmail.

**Warning**: Human names used, and references to WWI and (dimly) The Hundred Years War.

I like history…. Everything will be explained at the bottom. If I made any mistakes please tell me, and they will be fixed within an appropriate time! (Hopefully.)

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"Jeanne?"

The English nation froze. Hand inches away from changing the blood-soaked bandage that kept Francis from bleeding out, he paused, swinging his eyes to take in the Frenchman's pale face. Sweat ran from his forehead to his chin, all a pale pink from the blood-crusted scratches that littered his cheeks. An endless movement fluctuated though the blond man's lips, meaningless babble drowning out the sound of the endless battle raging beyond the safety of their trench.

"Francis?" Arthur inquired, shifting to a crouch to better judge his ally's awareness. "Damn it Frog, you better not be awake. You're hurt enough as it is, and I don't need you being your usual perverted self. You'd try to get in someone's pants and tear your stitches."

The Frenchman made no move to acknowledge him, but the ceaseless mumbling still continued, forming his already pitiful face into a mess of furrowed brows and trembling frowns. Flushed and feverish from infection, he tossed his head back and forth in obvious pain, sputtering nonsense to the heavens above. For all the years he had known him though, England was able to at least make sense of some of it, and the helplessness that went along with it.

'Jeanne.' Francis mumbled, breaths coming in large gasps as he flung his head around, trapped in feverish dreams. 'Ça fait mal. Aidez-moi. _S'il vous plaît_ aidez-moi.'

Arthur winced at that, as he did every time Francis mentioned the Saint's name, but he did his best to drown the sounds out, somehow continuing his work over his friends muffled sobs, fingers moving deftly over the bandages that swathed his chest.

Slowly the gauze came undone, revealing cut after cut, layer after layer of skin blackened with burns and bruises that stood out against his pale skin. That wasn't the worse though, and even England had to turn away from the fist sized gouge in the middle of his chest.

"Bloody hell, Francis." Arthur muttered, suddenly respectful of the man's privacy. He took one deep breath, and then another, before shakily returning to the task at hand. With one arm, he grappled with the bottle of whisky, while the other slid underneath France's back, mindful of the injuries that lay in wait there, and propped him up. Instantly, Francis let out a gasp of pain and began to struggle against England's grasp, but the other nation held fast, locking the Frenchman between his gloved hand and his smaller chest.

"Francis. Francis! Stop struggling you git." England reasoned, as he gripped the shaking man. "You're going to make it worse." Yet, in France's delirious state, all he got was a half-hearted curse at the Germans before he slumped against his captor, too tired to fight it. His head came to a stop at Arthur's shoulder, once beautiful blond curls smearing blood all over the English-man's cheek. At that, a flash of fear draped across Arthur, and he did the only thing he could think of. He sent up a prayer.

'Make him better.' Arthur begged, as he used his free hand to fling the cap off the whisky. 'Please, I can't do this. It'll hurt him-_I'll_ hurt him.' Francis remained the same, crying and whimpering against England's neck. 'I can't… I can't.' _He could_, and suddenly the trench was filled with Francis's screams.

Arthur might have well have been shot for all the pain that brings. His shoulders stiffen, but for Francis's sake he does not jump like intended. Instead, he forces down the guilt, and his wrist flicks again to send more of the alcohol against the wound. France could die somewhere else, later, but not here, not in Arthur's care. Again, the Frenchman cries out, but it's not nearly as loud or as pained as the first time. Arthur heaves a sigh at this, for as selfish as it sounds, he would have left if he had to hear that raw pain again.

He tries making conversation as he finishes cleaning and rewrapping Francis's wounds, but the words stick in his throat, and really what is he going to say? _Guess what Frog? You look pretty good after that Battle of Verdun. You know, aside from the massive, gaping hole in your chest. _So he just moves around in the silence, listening to Francis's delirious ramblings, as his fingers weave a spider's web of gauze around France's chest. When he's done, he shakily reaches a hand up to his friend's forehead, and rests it there, letting his hand soak up all the warmth. A small sob, unwarranted beyond what a sob should be, slips through his lips, and he turns his head away from Francis for the second time today, guilt swimming in his eyes.

"I tried to help you." England mumbles to the wall he's currently facing, pulling the hand not connected to Francis across his face. "I did everything I could, but the Germans… At the Soome..I…" He trails off. Breaths tired and heavy, he once again returns to memorizing the pain lines etched across Francis's face. With a sigh, he seats himself in the chair next to France's cot, and takes Francis's battered hand in both of his.

"I'll be here. All night." He mutters, pressing lightly against his friend's palm. "And you had better be here too. If you die Frog.." There's a stilling pause. He squeezes harder. "Don't die." His words echo throughout the trench. "Don't die."

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'Ça fait mal. Aidez-moi. _S'il vous plaît_ aidez-moi' means 'It hurts. Help me. _Please_ Help me.'

Jeanne is the patron saint of France who was responsible for helping France win the Hundred Year's War against England. As a retaliation, they (England) sentenced her to death for heresy. She was seventeen when she burned at the stake. (She is quite possibly my favorite Saint, and if you read deeper into her, quite sarcastic. She also enjoys to deadpan.)

The _Battle of Verdun _is an important battle of WWI in which Germany attacked the important military city of Verdun, France in an attempt to 'bleed France dry.' It lasted nine months. About 377,200 French were killed, while the Germans suffered 337,000 deaths. (The numbers could be wrong. Wiki is ahhh…._special_ sometimes.) Almost nothing was left standing in Verdun after the battle was over.

The _Battle of the Soome_ was a British attempt to distract the Germans from Verdun. It failed miserably, and the British were forced to retreat. Many British soldiers lost their lives in this battle.

I hoped you liked this one-shot of doom…. Please R&R. Anything is welcome-criticism, praise, whatever- as long as it's not senseless bashing. Please, I didn't write this to get in the middle of any shipping wars. I wrote it as a friendship/brotherly thing, but if read it with your slash goggles on- it doesn't matter to me. If you're happy with however you read it, then I am too.


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